Dish It Out
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14
1. Chapter 1

**Dish It Out**

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

_Like everyone else, I'm trying to work through my feelings about this season and where the boys are headed, so bear with me._

Chapter One

* * *

Sam sat up on the edge of the bed and stifled a groan. He'd been cooped up in the car all day yesterday and now spent the night on one of the hardest, most uncomfortable beds he could remember. As a result, his back was killing him this morning. The deal might have brought him back from the dead, but the bruising had taken a while to fade and he would always have an aching reminder of that night. He guessed dying was funny that way.

Normally it wasn't a problem, but it happened sometimes when he got too tired, or too stressed. The last few days, weeks really, qualified for both. Between Dean's admission of what had happened in hell, the brutal pace of case after case he'd set, and Sam's covert work with Ruby, he'd had precious little chance for a break. And that was before the siren blew their last bit of peace right out of the water.

Dean had just shut off the shower which meant Sam only had a couple of minutes left to himself. He got up and moved out from between the two beds. He stood up straight and then slowly bent to touch his toes, curling and stretching out his spine, trying to ease the discomfort. He stood up again, and then repeated the process, setting his hands flat against the floor.

"Dude, what's with the human pretzel routine?"

Sam snapped upright, feeling slightly light-headed at the sudden altitude change and annoyed that he hadn't heard Dean come out of the bathroom. His brother was standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist, steam billowing out of the bathroom around him.

"Sam?" Dean asked expectantly.

Dean knew about his back. There was no way he couldn't when they spent as much time together as they did. Still, Sam tried not to mention anything that brought back memories of Cold Oak and the two of them kneeling in the mud. He didn't complain to Dean about his back and he didn't let Dean catch him trying to work out the kinks, especially these days. Complaining about his back when his brother spent forty years in hell? Seemed kinda petty.

"Nothing, man. Just stretching. Mattress is crap."

"Back bothering ya again?"

Sam just shrugged. "S'ok."

Dean rolled his eyes and muttered, "He says while standing on his head." Dean walked to his duffle that was sitting against the wall and began rummaging through it. "Forgot my t-shirt," he said, explaining why he'd come out of the bathroom and caught Sam mid-stretch. He grabbed the shirt and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sam pursed his lips in chagrin. He really didn't know why he put any effort into hiding things from Dean. After all, he had angels snitching on him these days, and that was on top of Dean's natural inclination to watch him like a hawk. Dean had known about the calls to Ruby no matter how stealthy Sam had thought he was being.

Awkward didn't even begin to describe the current state of affairs. Sometimes he felt like nothing had changed between them since Dean's return, but more often than not, he felt like there was a huge gulf between them that couldn't be crossed no matter how much they might want to. Still, they were trying. They were both _exhausted_ from trying to pretend that everything was ok between them. Maybe if they pretended long enough, it might actually happen. Then again, maybe not, but pretending was easier. It kept a lunch stop from turning into a shouting match or worse, a fist fight.

The door to the bathroom opened again and Dean reappeared, dressed this time. He padded out, barefoot, and threw his dirty clothes in the general direction of his duffle before stopping when he realized Sam was still standing in the exact same place he had been.

"You know, if you need the bathroom, you can just say so. You don't have to wait in line."

It was enough to jostle Sam back into movement. "Yeah. Sorry."

Dean gave him an odd look, walked back to his bag and pulled out a small bottle of pills. "Here." He threw them to Sam. "Maybe those will help with the personality problems."

"Don't need a personality," Sam grumbled. "Need a better mattress."

Dean snorted. "Well, we can't all be lucky enough to have a brand new birthday suit."

Sam froze in place. Before he knew that Dean remembered everything from his time in hell, he wouldn't have given the offhand comment another thought. Dean was always saying things like that. Sam might have made the comment himself. He knew better now though. He knew how much was hiding beneath his brother's composed exterior. Well, he didn't _know_, but he knew.

Sam forced an amused grimace. "Dean, can we not talk about your birthday suit? Ever?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You're just jealous. High price to pay, but like I keep tellin' ya, smooth as a baby's behind."

"Dude, it's too early for this. Seriously. And what would you know about a baby's behind anyway?"

Sam knew he was in trouble when Dean smirked. "You mean apart from your sorry ass? Dude, I got two words for you. Jumbo diapers. And just so you know, you were a _bitch_ to potty train."

Sam just stopped and stared. Again. He'd lived through it, but it was nearly impossible for him to associate Dean the uber-bachelor with a boy who'd spent his early years making sure Sam got to a bathroom before he had an accident.

Dean scratched a hand through his still damp hair. "Besides… you've never had actual contact with a barber, but I'm pretty sure you get the general concept. Same thing."

It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes, but inwardly he smiled. It felt good to have Dean giving him a hard time, the kind without the yelling and the punching.

The door rattled as someone knocked, a little harder than necessary.

"We miss check-out or something?" Dean asked.

Sam glanced at the bedside clock. "Still have half an hour." He walked to the door and looked through the peephole. "Don't recognize him." Sam hopped back when the man banged on the door again, even harder.

"Geez," Dean said in annoyance. "Switch to decaf already."

"Definitely." Sam stepped to the side of the door and opened it a few inches. The man looked to be anywhere from forty to fifty, salt and pepper hair, dressed in slacks and button down shirt, and he had that pinched look people get when they've been stressed for too long. "Can I help you?" The breeze coming through the door reminded Sam that it was definitely still winter and that he was barefoot. At least he'd gone to bed wearing his sweats.

"I need to speak with you."

"Can this wait?" Sam asked.

"Please, I really need to talk to you." The guy actually put his hand on the door and tried to push it open, but the chain caught.

"Christo," Sam said, dropping the polite tone. Nothing happened other than the guy giving him a funny look. "What do you want?"

"Please, Sam, I _need_ to talk to you."

That certainly got his attention, and he could almost feel Dean tense behind him.

"You sure you don't know this guy?" he heard Dean ask quietly.

"Pretty sure."

"Let him in," Dean ordered.

Sam pushed the door closed against a huff of aggravation from the man outside, then took the chain off. The man immediately pushed the door open wide and barreled inside the room. He stopped short, however, when he saw Dean who had apparently located his gun at some point and was very calmly aiming it at the man's head.

"That's far enough," Dean said coldly.

The man paled visibly and Sam thought it served him right for messing up their morning. He closed the door and stepped to the side to make sure he was out of reach and definitely out of Dean's line of fire.

"Please, I…" The man swallowed nervously.

Dean kept the gun aimed steadily. "You were watching us in the diner across the road last night and now you're here pushing your way into our room. That's two strikes in my book."

Sam gave the man another once-over, but he still didn't recognize him. He certainly didn't remember him watching them at dinner the night before. Dean apparently had, however. If anything, Dean was even more vigilant since he'd come back. Sam didn't want to ponder just how much time Dean had spent in hell watching for new dangers.

The man appeared completely silenced by the gun in his face. He was just staring at it, thunderstruck.

"I don't know who you are," Dean snapped, "but you have about ten seconds to start talking."

"You're… D-Dean, right?"

"How do you know us?"

"I'm a teacher at North Lawton."

"So?"

"The high school."

"And?"

"Crap," Sam said suddenly, an image coming to mind of the man, ten years younger and without the gray in his hair. "I think he was one of my teachers."

Dean smirked. "We counting that as a third strike?"

"Dean." Sam shot him a quelling look as the man backed up, panicking. Dean dropped the gun and tucked it into his jeans at his back. He then looked down at his feet. "Hate threatening people barefoot," he muttered. "Lose all sense of authority."

"Sit down, Mr.…" Sam couldn't recall the man's name. He looked up at Dean who was rummaging in his bag again. "You remember him at all? We were only here a month or so."

"I got nothing," Dean said, holding up a pair of clean socks triumphantly. "I was outta school by then. Just dropped you off, picked you up, and that was it."

"Stockton," the guy said. He sat down heavily in a chair, his eyes still wide and glued to Dean, but he was calming now that the gun had been put away.

"What do you want, Mr. Stockton?" Sam asked. If he was remembering correctly, this guy had been one of those teachers who'd been a little _too_ interested. A little too smart, a little too observant. He'd known something was off about their family.

"I…," he cleared his throat uncertainly, "I need your help."

Dean made a rolling gesture with his hand for the guy to move it along. He was impatient at the best of times and Sam could vouch that these… were not the best of times.

"When you were here… back then… I knew something was strange," Stockton explained. "I saw some of the books Sam carried, weird books, and I heard him talking to you a couple of times when you came to pick him up. Not much, just… enough to know you were looking into the deaths and thought it was something… crazy."

Dean just shrugged, but Sam nodded. It had been a long time ago, but he sort of remembered it. Poltergeist problem in some house that was for sale. People would come to look at the house and then die mysteriously. Finally killed a couple of realtors and a family looking at the house before the story made enough news to catch their dad's attention.

"That house was down the road from mine. I was up late one night and heard your car. I saw you," Stockton nodded to Dean, "and another guy, older, go into it. The next day, Sam was pulled out of school, but… no one else died after that."

"That's great," Dean said. He finished pulling his socks on and stood. "Nothing I like better than a little walk down memory lane. Glad to see you again. I'm sure Sam's thrilled." He pointed. "There's the door."

"Please," the man said, standing as well. "I need your help. My family… this has been going on for three years now. I've looked up other people, anyone who might be able to help. They say the house is haunted, but nobody has been able to do anything about it. I saw you two in the diner and I could barely believe it. It was like the answer was just handed to me on a…" He stopped abruptly, grimacing, although Sam didn't understand why. "Just… please…"

"Look, pal. We've got somewhere to be," Dean said, and they did. They were on their way to a possible haunting a couple of states over. "Maybe later… or maybe we can find someone who can help you."

"Please," the man pleaded. "I've been praying for someone to help us. We'd given up and then you two… just out of the blue. I could barely believe my eyes."

Dean shoulders sagged and he looked at Sam, their eyes meeting briefly. Finally Dean shook his head. "You've been praying, huh?"

Stockton frowned, confused, but he nodded. "Yes. It was the only thing I could think of left to do."

"He prayed for help," Dean said, almost to himself. Sam watched as he sighed and closed his eyes in defeat. "Well, _crap_."

* * *

_More soon_...


	2. Chapter 2

**Dish It Out**

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

Chapter Two

* * *

While Sam got dressed, Dean called Bobby to ask him to find someone else for the haunting. They apparently already had one here and a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush. Granted, Dean didn't like birds or bushes. Birds crapped on the car, and bushes, trees, shrubs, they all meant he was hiking or crawling through stuff that ensured he had too many holes in his jeans. If he ever found out who'd imported tumbleweed he was going to kick their ass.

Stockton was sitting in one of the chairs by the door, still watching him warily. Dean snorted. Honestly, he waved a gun in somebody's very deserving face one time and they never trusted him again.

Sam came out of the bathroom, combing his fingers through his hair. "Ready?" Dean asked unnecessarily.

"Yeah. Where to?"

"Grab your gear. We're gonna have to find another motel. This one's booked for tonight if you can believe it." Before calling Bobby, Dean had called the desk to tell them they wanted to stay another night. No such luck.

"You," Stockton took in a deep breath, "can stay with us. You'll need to see the house anyway."

"It's ok," Dean said, taking pity on the guy. "We'll find another motel."

Stockton shook his head. "Really, I… I'll do anything that will make my wife feel safe again. Having someone in the house who knows about this kind of thing will help."

Dean glanced at Sam who just shrugged, so he sighed and gestured toward the door. "Lead the way."

The man practically leapt for the door. "Just follow me. I live about ten minutes from here."

Dean wasn't in a big hurry to follow. He waited for Sam to gather his few belongings and stow them in his duffel before grabbing his own bag and heading for the door.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Sam asked.

"Probably not," Dean replied, then raised an eyebrow, "but it might get you a better mattress for the night. What more can a ghost-hunting outlaw with a bad back ask for?"

An odd look crossed Sam's face and Dean was almost sorry he'd asked.

* * *

Dean pulled the Impala into the drive and looked up at the house. It was a typical, two-story suburban home, no more than fifteen years old. Not exactly prime territory for a haunting. It was a little too new, too clean. They probably had a sprinkler system, for crying out loud.

Stockton was already out of his car and waiting on the front porch to let them in, but Dean just sat for a moment taking in his surroundings. If this was a problem that had been going on for three years and had caught the attention of other hunters who hadn't been able to fix it, then Dean wasn't going to rush in without getting a good lay of the land first.

He spared a glance at Sam and saw that he was doing the exact same thing. It was one of the first things Dean had noticed when he came back. Sam was more watchful, more vigilant. Dean went back to studying the house and the area around it. He didn't want to think about how much time Sam had spent on his own, watching for new dangers without his brother there at his back. He certainly didn't want to think about Ruby taking that spot.

As if by mutual agreement, they got out of the car and both walked to the trunk. Dean wasn't going in there unarmed and apparently neither was Sam, although it was daylight and the spooks did love the night life.

Mr. Stockton let them into the house and once again, Dean saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was a big house, perfect for any suburban couple with 2.4 children. It made his skin crawl. He wasn't sure if it was because he was so far out of his element or if it was because there was something going on he couldn't see.

A smartly-dressed woman with more gray than brown in her shoulder-length hair appeared from the back of the house and quickly came forward at the sight of them. Dean noted that she purposely walked on one side of the entryway, maintaining her distance from a closed door opposite. Mrs. Stockton had that same too-tense look as her husband, but she smiled and held out her hand. "I'm Amy. I'm so glad you could come."

"No problem," Dean said politely. "I'm Dean. This is Sam."

Sam also held out his hand. "Nice to see you again, Mrs. Stockton." He turned to Dean. "She was a teacher, too. Not my grade though."

She gave Sam a more genuine smile. "It's nice to see that you grew into your height. You were so, so tall and thin. I always wanted to feed you when I saw you."

Sam blushed and Dean was glad to see that there was at least a trace of the bashful teenager still left in his little brother. He was afraid that four suicidal, vengeance-filled months and a demon girlfriend were enough to drive that out of anyone.

"Trust me," Dean said. "Sam did two things as a teenager. He studied and he ate. Not necessarily in that order." Dean had made sure of it. A guy didn't get to be sasquatch-tall without getting enough to eat.

As a teenager, Sam had shot up almost overnight. He'd been scrawny, too, all of his energy going into his seemingly never-ending growth spurt. Thankfully, by the time Sam was going through a half-gallon of orange juice in a sitting, Dean had been older and hadn't been forced to make do with the cash their dad left. When the money ran out, Dean had just switched to different methods.

Dean gave himself a mental shake. He kept catching himself thinking about the minutiae of his life with Sam. It had been all he'd had to hold himself together while he was… gone. He'd had memories of his life with Sam and he'd held onto every stupid little detail he could remember. He'd learned to focus like a frigging Zen master, because the alternative was to focus on-

"Dean?"

Dean opened his eyes. He didn't even remember closing them. Mr. and Mrs. Stockton were looking at him anxiously and Sam actually had a hand on his arm.

"Maybe we should sit down?" Mrs. Stockton said. "Why don't we go into the living room?"

Dean nodded and made an attempt at a smile. His skin was crawling again and this time he was certain it wasn't the effects of the apple-pie suburban life. He wanted to ask Sam if he was feeling it too, but didn't want to when Sam was already looking worried. He'd have to wait and see if Sam brought it up. Dean couldn't afford to look weak. Well, weak_er_. Not now.

They followed the Stocktons into the next room, Sam still keeping a hand at his elbow. Dean shrugged it off, but almost wished he hadn't. His knees felt a little shaky, and every instinct he had was telling him to run for the door and never come back to this house.

The couple sat on the sofa, leaving Sam and Dean to take a pair of chairs opposite them. It rankled that Sam made sure Dean was seated before he went to his own. Even an invalid didn't need help sitting on his ass.

It was only then that Dean realized there was another person in the room. Another man was sitting at a little table in the corner, his back to the wall, with a pack of cards in front of him playing solitaire. He was older than the couple, his remaining hair stark white, and his face was slack, like the lights were on, but the homeowner had already skipped town.

Mr. Stockton saw where he was looking. "That's my father, Walter. He's," the man smiled sadly, "he lives with us, but don't worry. He won't bother you."

"Is there something wrong with him?" Dean went for blunt. There was something going on in this house and he didn't really feel like sticking around. That meant no beating around the bush.

"He was in a camp in Vietnam. He came home like this. He takes care of himself, will do a few basic things around the house, but he won't speak to you, doesn't interact." Mr. Stockton's sad smile turned fond. "He plays a mean game of cards though."

Walter didn't look up, although he was being talked about. He just kept playing solitaire. PTSD, Dean thought, although he'd always kinda preferred the term shell-shocked for a soldier. It let people know you'd been in a war. It let them know you'd been through hell.

"You must have been just a boy when he came home," Sam observed.

Mr. Stockton nodded. "To be honest, I don't remember what he was like before. My mother and I have taken care of him since I was little. Mom's gone now, but really, he's no trouble. Not even all of this," he made a vague gesture to the house around them, "seems to bother him."

"You're sure it has nothing to do with him?" Dean asked doubtfully.

"Yes. And don't think everyone else hasn't thought the same thing," Stockton said, his tone reproachful. "Pop has lived here with us since this house was built and we know exactly when all of this started which was only three years ago."

"Ok," Dean cleared his throat, "then you wanna tell us what _is_ the problem?"

Mrs. Stockton shifted in her seat, almost as if embarrassed. "The house is haunted."

"Yeah, we got that. I'm guessing there's a catch since you've had other people come in and they couldn't take care of it for you."

"They've tried. Goodness knows we've had everyone come in we could think of or who tracked us down from the reports in the papers. Priests, preachers, paranormal specialists… Nothing works."

"So three years," Sam said. "You know what started all of this?"

"I went to a garage sale," Mrs. Stockton answered, noticeably relieved that they were taking it seriously. "I found a beautiful set of china and brought it home. Full place settings for twelve people."

"Dishes?" Dean asked, surprised.

She nodded. "I brought them home and set them in the formal dining room. Gil and I were having dinner that night and," she grimaced, "the room just went crazy. The dishes started flying everywhere, smashing themselves to pieces, flying at us, trying to cut us to ribbons or just beat us to death."

"We ran out of the dining room and locked the door," Mr. Stockton took up the story. "Every few days we hear things breaking, but we don't go in there. The neighbors have called the police several times thinking we're fighting and throwing things at each other, but it's all over by the time they get here."

"What about other people who go in?" Dean asked.

"The same thing happened to a couple of them, but most of them, nothing. The dishes are just dishes unless either of us goes in, too."

"It's bone china, isn't it?" Sam asked thoughtfully.

The Stocktons both nodded.

"Bone china?" Dean frowned. Sam already seemed to have an idea what was going on, but Dean was still lost. Ghosts threw dishes at them pretty regularly. They had some good weight on them and could do some damage.

Sam looked at him. "It's called bone china because one of the ingredients is bone ash. Makes the dishes stronger. These days it's mostly from cows."

"How do you even know that?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I tend to remember things that use bodies to make them."

"Cows, huh?"

"Yeah."

"So," Dean ran a hand over his face, "either the world's most pissed-off cow got turned into a plate… or somebody got a little human mixed in with the bovine."

"Sounds like," Sam replied.

"Man, I hate cows." Dean rubbed absently at his right hand, where there had been a scar pre-hell.

Sam snorted. "Focus, Dean. The real problem is that whoever this is? They shouldn't be around to cause problems like this. The body's already ash. There's no one to dig up."

Dean heard Mrs. Stockton make a strangled sort of noise and he and Sam both looked up, realizing they'd forgotten they had an audience.

"Sorry," Sam said. "It's just… obviously the normal… _techniques_ won't take care of the problem."

Mr. Stockton nodded. "We've thrown the dishes away, taken them to Goodwill, sold them. A man came who took them outside, poured salt all over them and set them on fire. No matter what, they always reappear, intact, in the dining room."

"Can we see them?" Dean asked, standing. His skin was still crawling, and he was already thinking there was no way he would be able to sleep in this house. They were going to have to find another motel whether these people liked it or not.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Mr. Stockton said. "You should really just take our word on this."

"Not really good at taking things on faith," Dean answered wryly. "Where's the dining room?"

The couple both pointed toward the door that Mrs. Stockton had given a wide berth when they came in. "Across the hall. The key's in the little table next to the door."

"We'll make it quick," Dean said, following Sam out of the room.

Sam grabbed the key and immediately they heard the distinct clink of china. He put the key in the lock and they waited, but there was no further noise.

"Plates flying at us," Dean said. "I need my shotgun. Be like one of those rich guys in the movies. Or _Duck Hunt_."

"I'm pretty sure in skeet they're flying _away_ from you."

Dean shrugged. It didn't really matter. He still wished he was carrying Marigold. The handgun at his back was good, but his favorite sawed-off just made him feel better when there was a ghost in the neighborhood. Nevertheless, before they broke out the shotguns and scared the Stocktons, they were just going to do a little recon and then have a brainstorming session on what to do.

Sam opened the door warily, but everything inside was quiet and nothing flew at them. It was a large formal dining room. There were a few pieces of furniture up against the walls including a sideboard with dishes stacked on it, and in the middle of the room a large table set for eight people, gold-rimmed dishes gleaming in the light coming through the windows.

Sam stepped inside the room and Dean followed, that crawling feeling blossoming into a nearly itching pressure.

The second Dean was inside, the door swung closed behind them and suddenly the pressure was crushing. Dean had to get out of here. He was trapped. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Sulfur burned his nose and eyes, ash blinded him.

He was in hell.

He was here for Sam. He _had_ to be here for Sam. He had to _stay_ here for Sam.

He couldn't leave. He'd made the deal and it was set in stone. He _couldn't_ leave. They wouldn't _let_ him.

Dean fell to his knees, his eyes streaming, the stench of death and sulfur clogging his lungs. Screams filled his ears, crashing, breaking, never-ending destruction.

He could never, ever leave this place. All that was left to him was darkness and pain.

He was _damned_.

* * *

Dean came to on the sofa in the living room. He could hear Walter flipping cards at his little table behind the couch.

"Are you sure he's ok?" Mrs. Stockton asked breathlessly.

"I've never seen _anyone_ react that way to the room," her husband added.

"He just needs a minute," Sam said, using his I'm-panicking-on-the-inside voice. "He-" Dean couldn't understand the rest above the sound of breaking dishes in the room across the hall.

He took a deep breath, forcing away the images in his head, and turned to sit up. Sam immediately caught the movement and dropped to one knee at Dean's side. Dean did his best not to look as freaked as he felt. He knew it wasn't working when Sam reached out a hand as if to comfort him then withdrew it, afraid to startle him. So much for not looking weak.

"Hey, man," Sam said, using that quiet, careful voice that Dean both hated and clung to when he was on shaky ground.

"Yeah," Dean answered, not liking how ragged he sounded. There was another crash of dishes in the dining room and Dean flinched, blaming it on his pounding headache and not on his very sincere desire to run like a girl.

"You ok?"

Dean gave up on waiting for Sam to bring up the topic. "You, uhh… you feel anything weird in the house? Even before we went in there?" he asked, rather than answer. Cause saying _I am beyond freaked_ wasn't going to help the situation.

"Like what?" Sam was still using the talking-to-a-skittish-witness voice. Dean distantly noted it was remarkably close to his brother's Dean-has-a-hangover voice.

"I dunno. As soon as we walked in it was like…" Dean trailed off, unsure how to describe this particular brand of heebie-jeebies. It was just perfect that the house was affecting him and not Sam. Dean fought not to get angry. To say that he was feeling defensive about the possibility that he was holding his brother back was an understatement.

"No, I didn't really notice anything," Sam admitted. "But whatever it is, it really doesn't like me."

Dean raised his head and finally worked up the nerve to look at his brother. "Holy crap. What happened?" Sam was bleeding from a cut just above his hairline and he was already working on a beauty of a bruise across the right side of his face.

"The door slammed shut, you did a face plant and started making noises like you couldn't breathe, and then every freaking dish in the room tried to bash my head in."

"Just you?"

"Hard to tell with all of the yelling and the cowering under the table," Sam said, pursing his lips in chagrin, "but, yeah… the dishes hate me."

"Huh."

The noise in the dining room abruptly stopped, causing everyone in the living room with the exception of Walter to turn in that direction. Sam stood and Dean followed on unsteady legs, passing the Stocktons and warily approaching the door across the hall. Sam put his hand on the knob, but there was no reaction from inside the room. He pushed the door open with his foot, but neither of them crossed the threshold.

The room was pristine. There were dishes stacked on the sideboard and the table was once again carefully set for eight places, gold-rimmed dishes gleaming.

Sam pulled the door closed and locked it.

* * *

___Pardon the cow reference, just couldn't resist. If you haven't read the mini-moo story, then ignore what I just said. _More soon...


	3. Chapter 3

**Dish It Out**

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

_Thank you so much for the reviews. Encouragement makes me type faster._

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam and Dean walked up the front step to the 50s era ranch style home and Dean knocked on the front door. "This is a waste of time."

"This is where Mrs. Stockton got the plates in the garage sale. We've got to start somewhere." Sam didn't say that he was pretty sure this _was_ a waste of time, but he was more than happy to use it as an excuse to get Dean out of the Stocktons' house.

Dean was still pale and he was in total lockdown mode. Whatever had happened in the dining room, he wasn't talking. All Sam knew was what he'd seen. The door had closed, Dean had made a noise, almost a sob, then fallen to his knees, gasping, his arms pulled in tight to his chest, then completely keeled over. Sam had been forced to run for cover when the dishes started flying and it had taken Mr. Stockton's help to pull Dean out of the room.

Dean fidgeted with his tie and straightened his jacket, again. "You ok?" Sam asked.

"I'm fine," Dean growled. "Just don't feel like spending an hour of my life talkin' about freakin' dishes."

The door opened abruptly and an elderly woman appeared. She was wearing a long skirt, a turtleneck with a crocheted vest over it and clunky shoes. Her hair was pulled back in a bun and Sam wondered if it hurt to wear her hair that tight. The woman raised her eyebrows at the sight of them. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said, taking the lead since this was his idea. "We're from Martin Antiques. A woman named Amy Stockton told us that she bought a set of china from you a few years ago."

The woman looked surprised, then nodded. "I don't really remember who bought them, but, yes, I sold quite a few things in a garage sale."

"It's a beautiful set, but the problem is that it's not quite complete. We've been trying, but we're having a little trouble tracking down the missing pieces. We were hoping that you could tell us where you bought them?" Sam smiled hopefully, as if he really gave a crap about some china when his brother was barely holding it together, not to mention the pending war, the questionable state of his soul, and about a dozen other disasters that were in the works.

"Are you all right, young man?" she asked, gesturing toward his face a bit nervously.

Sam brought a hand up to the bruise across his cheek. He'd already forgotten about it. He was so used to wandering around a little banged-up, that the slight throb of the hit he'd taken was barely registering.

"My brother and I were moving some furniture around in the shop," Dean offered quickly. "I'm afraid I tripped him up and he fell right into an armoire."

"Oh, goodness," she said sympathetically. "That must have hurt."

Sam just nodded. He doubted he could say anything at the moment. As awkward as things had been between them lately, even in a throwaway story for a witness, Dean fell on his sword for him without thinking twice.

"You're brothers?" she asked. "Like those nice Keno boys on the _Antiques Roadshow_!"

"Yes, ma'am." Dean smiled, although Sam could tell he didn't have a clue what the woman was talking about.

"Well, why don't you come in?" she offered, moving back from the door. "I'm Lily, Lily Simpson."

"Thank you," Sam said, stepping inside first. "I'm Sam. This is Dean." He turned just in time to see Dean hesitate before he stepped over the threshold. Sam watched out of the corner of his eye as his brother came inside, paused for a second as if testing the waters, and then visibly relaxed.

"Come back this way," the woman called, heading deeper into the house. They followed her into the kitchen and found her rummaging through a cabinet. She shook her head and stepped back, closing it. "I'm afraid you probably won't have much luck finding more of those dishes. My husband and I bought them on a trip to Europe in the early fifties."

"We've been trying to identify the maker's mark on the bottom, but even that is giving us trouble." Especially since whatever was going on with the dishes meant that Sam couldn't go near them to check.

"As I recall, it was a very small operation," Lily said, moving to another cabinet and beginning to push various items aside so she could see others. "They made the dishes in the back, then sold them out of the store up front. We got the set cheaply because they were going out of business. They couldn't compete with the big companies, I guess."

"I see," Sam said. "May I ask why you sold them?"

The woman momentarily stopped going through the cupboards and turned to face them. "I didn't need them anymore. I thought maybe someone else could get some use out of them."

"Did you ever have any… problems with the set?" Dean asked.

She frowned. "What sort of problems?"

"Oh, anything," Dean said casually. "Quality problems, excessive… breakage."

"No, nothing like that." Lily clasped her hands, suddenly looking guilty. "To be honest, I never used them if I didn't have to. They were pretty dishes, but something about them… I just never liked them. My husband bought the set for me, so I kept them, but after he was gone, I went ahead and sold them in the garage sale."

"They never gave you any trouble?" Dean tried again.

"Well, they're dishes," Lily said, giving him an odd look. "They just sort of sit there if you don't use them."

"Right." Dean nodded.

Lily turned back around and resumed her search. "After the garage sale, I actually found a couple of stray pieces that had been put away in the wrong place. I didn't know who bought the rest in the sale or I would have given them to her. Maybe they're just what you're looking for since you're trying to complete the set."

The woman made a sound of triumph and came out of the cabinet holding a pair of teacups and a saucer. "There," she said happily. "Why don't you two take these? They should have been with the rest of the set when I sold them, so she can just have them."

Without waiting for an answer, she walked up to Dean and handed them to him. The second the china touched him, Dean flinched and closed his eyes, noticeably working to breathe. It wasn't nearly as bad as what happened in the dining room at the Stocktons, but it was bad enough. Dean opened his eyes, and forced a smile. "Thank you," he said tightly. "Mrs. Stockton will be… thrilled."

Dean then thrust his hands out toward Sam, as if unable to bear holding the dishes any longer. Sam hurriedly took the teacups, but the second he grabbed them, the dishes exploded in his hands. Shards flew at his face and he fell back, startled.

"Sam!" Dean shouted at the same time that Lily cried out in alarm.

Sam backed into a piece of furniture and lost his balance, but just as quickly felt himself being righted by familiar hands. Sam opened his eyes and realized he couldn't see out of one them and half of his face felt warm and wet.

"Dishes, man," he heard Dean say shakily. "You'll shoot your eye out." Sam tried to raise a hand to his face, but Dean immediately batted it away. "You're not blind, you're bleeding."

Dean unceremoniously hauled him into the kitchen, grabbed a cloth sitting by the sink and pressed it against his forehead.

As his vision cleared, Sam watched Dean as he tried to staunch the bleeding. He was looking particularly grim, and he too was sporting a couple of nicks on his face, though nothing like the fountain Sam had apparently opened on his own.

"What happened?" Lily demanded nervously. "You... You barely even touched them!"

Sam just looked at Dean. "Like I said. The dishes hate me."

* * *

"Is there anything I can do?" Mrs. Stockton asked.

Sam was sitting on a chair in the kitchen with a cloth pressed to his head where the worst gash was still seeping. Dean stood beside him, opening their first aid kit that he'd brought in from the car. Mrs. Stockton was hovering, while her husband was behind Dean, leaning against the counter watching them with his arms crossed.

"No thanks," Dean said, his voice gruff. "Stitches are easy. At least for the guy doing the sewing." He hadn't said much since hustling Sam out of Lily's house and into the car. As it was, they were no closer to an answer and Dean had clammed up even tighter than before as soon as they stepped back into the Stocktons' home. Even now Sam could see the tension in Dean's shoulders and knew it wasn't just because Sam was hurt.

The situation wasn't going to get any better either. There were only a couple of motels in town and they were both full. They were going to have to spend the night here despite Dean's obvious need to be away from this place.

While Dean started cleaning the wound, Sam held still and took the opportunity to study his brother. Dean's jaw was clenched tightly and his breathing was so mechanically even, that Sam suspected he was counting. If Sam had to guess, Dean was about two seconds from bolting out of the house and was doing everything he could to hide that fact.

"Did you find out anything?" Amy asked.

Dean looked startled by the interruption of whatever was going on in his head, but he quickly pulled himself together. He took in a shaky breath and Sam watched as he reformed his barriers and wrapped an air of easygoing charm around himself like he was putting on his favorite coat. The Stocktons wouldn't be able to see it, but the sight made Sam wish even harder that they could finish this and get out of the house sooner rather than later.

"We found out that the dishes didn't cause any problems until you bought them," Dean said. "The lady gave us a couple of stray cups and as soon as Sam touched 'em, they tried to rearrange his face." Sam noticed that Dean skipped the part where he touched them and nearly freaked again.

Dean turned to Mr. Stockton who was standing behind him. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Sure," the man said, looking green at the thought of assisting.

"Come stand around behind Sam."

"Why?"

"Because I wanna be able to see you while I talk to you," he answered. Sam knew that meant he didn't like the guy behind him watching, especially since Dean wasn't feeling all that safe to begin with.

Dean began pushing things aside in the first aid kit to find what he wanted. "Don't worry, Sam. I'll make sure you're still pretty."

"Thanks," Sam muttered.

"Not as pretty as me." Dean gave him a smug grin. "But then I only have so much to work with."

"Fine, Dean. You're better looking. Can you just patch me up, please?" He wanted this taken care of so that he could get Dean on his own and force him to talk.

"Man, it's no fun when you just admit defeat like that," Dean complained, pulling out what he'd need to stitch Sam up. He looked up at the Stocktons for just a second. "So tell me," he said casually, "what was Sam like as a student?"

Sam glanced up at the unbelievably trite question. Dean knew exactly what Sam had been like as a student. He'd been quiet, attentive, hard-working. He'd been a nice, boring student. Dean briefly met his gaze, telling him this was strictly for distraction purposes and Sam sighed. He tilted his head up and to one side to give his brother better access to the wound.

"Sam was a very odd student."

Sam jerked in surprise, causing Dean to hiss his disapproval that his patient wouldn't sit still. "Dude!"

"Sorry," Sam said and resumed his earlier position. Dean wasted no time and placed one hand on the side of Sam's head opposite the gash to steady them both while he did the stitching. Sam closed his eyes and did his best to ignore the sting of the needle, instead focusing on the comforting feel of his brother's steady hands taking care of him. Sam had been cut up once while Dean was gone and Ruby had been the one to patch him up. Sam was still surprised he hadn't died of alcohol poisoning that night. There hadn't been enough booze in the world to keep him from remembering who should have been taking care of him.

"What do you mean he was odd?" Dean asked, and Sam could hear the amusement in his voice. He was probably dying to make any of half a dozen jokes.

"Well…" Sam heard Mr. Stockton shifting nervously behind him. "I told you I saw him carrying some strange books and I overheard a conversation between the two of you when you picked him up one day."

"You were watching me before that," Sam said. It was one of the reasons they'd disappeared the day after the hunt was over instead of waiting around until they found another hunt that gave them a reason to go through all of the bureaucratic hoops of switching schools.

"Dude." Dean gave him a light smack on his head to tell him to quit moving.

"Sorry."

"Your record was odd, of course," Stockton said. "A child who moves that often but who still has grades like that is unusual." There was a pause and Sam wished he could see the man. "I guess what caught my attention would be… Sam treated my class like… like it was life and death. That's why I was spying on you and overheard your conversation. I thought maybe Sam was afraid of being punished if he didn't get straight A's."

Sam didn't say anything, but Dean made a sound low in his throat that had Sam opening his eyes to gauge the look on his face. "Sammy was desperate to get into college. Getting away from this," he looked down at his stitching and then back up at Mr. Stockton, "I guess you could say it _was_ a matter of life and death."

"Dean," Sam said lowly.

"S'ok, man," Dean said easily. And Sam realized it was. They were so far beyond all that now. They had angels and demons alternately helping them and trying to kill them. He was demon tainted. Dean had been to _hell_. Sam's teenage issues seemed a lifetime away.

"Did you?" Mrs. Stockton asked curiously. "Go to college?"

"Stanford," Dean answered for him, none of the rancor in his tone that Sam had heard so often. "Was an ace there, too."

"But-"

"All done," Dean said, snipping off the ends. Neither he nor Sam wanted to explain how his stellar education had come to such an abrupt end. Teenage issues were one thing, but pain like that… Sometimes pain was pain, even at a distance. The thought made him glance at his brother who was now very, very meticulously washing the remaining blood from his hands in the sink.

Dean walked back from the sink, pulled a bandage out of the kit, covered the gash on Sam's forehead and then stepped back. "I may have to take back the promise about making you pretty. I'm not a miracle worker."

"Miracle worker?" Sam said archly. "I'm just grateful you didn't poke my eye out."

Dean reached back toward the first aid kit. "Maybe I can give it another try."

"So where do we go from here?" Mr. Stockton asked, cutting them off. "Or are we just out of luck?"

Dean scratched at the back of his head, clearly frustrated. "Give me and Sam a minute to regroup. We'll come up with something."

Mr. and Mrs. Stockton both nodded, although there was a distinct air of hopelessness surrounding them. From the sound of it, they'd tried everything and if Sam and Dean didn't figure something out, then that was it.

"You said you had a room for us?" Sam asked.

"Sure." Mr. Stockton led the way up the stairs and down a hallway to a decent sized bedroom. It only had one bed and was a little too flowery for their bachelor tastes, but it would have to do. His head was pounding and now that Dean wasn't concentrating on taking care of Sam's injury, he was back to looking jittery, almost spooked.

"The bathroom is down the hall," Mr. Stockton said, turning to leave. "Let me know if you need anything."

Sam nodded. "Thanks." He closed the door and turned to see Dean walk across the room, turn, and walk back.

"So you wanna tell me what's goin' on with you?" Sam asked.

"Nothing. House is giving me the creeps, is all."

"Dean, come on, man."

"Please," Dean said, a little too loudly. "Just... just let it go."

Sam sank onto the bed, wishing for a truckload of aspirin, and watched as his brother paced back and forth. He was clenching and unclenching his fists, almost like he was spoiling for a fight, but didn't have a target.

Unfortunately, what Sam was about to suggest was probably going to give him one.

"Dean."

His brother stopped pacing and turned to look at him almost in a fighting stance. Sam didn't know what Dean was feeling, but it clearly had him on edge, readying himself for battle. Dean shrugged his shoulders, trying to loosen them. "Yeah."

Sam took a deep breath. Dean wasn't going to like this, but since he wasn't willing to talk, then it was all Sam could think of left to do.

"Dean, I think we should talk to Ruby."

* * *

_As I'm sure you guys can guess, the next chapter's gonna get ugly... It'll be posted soon..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Dish It Out**

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

_Alrighty… Fair warning… S4 issues abound and this is about to get a bit ugly… If you're not up for any more ugliness between the boys then these are not the droids you're looking for… Move along…_

Chapter Four

* * *

"No."

"Dean, we-"

"All right, how about _no_ with a big ol' side of _no freakin' way_. We're not talking to Ruby."

"Look. We have no body, no name… Even if we track down a manufacturer how are we supposed to find out who got incinerated, and even if we do how are we supposed to get rid-"

"We'll think of something," Dean growled. This was exactly what he didn't need. This house was making him crazy. The whole acid flashback to hell thing added to this gnawing claustrophobia had him on edge, frustrated that there was nothing he could do about it except get out and leave these people to their problem. And now, when Dean was already jumping out of his skin, memories of hell beating down on him, Sam wanted to bring a _demon_ into the mix.

"Dean, she's not just a… Ruby knows about spells and a million other things we've never even heard of. She might be able to track something down."

"You think bringing up that she's a witch, too, is supposed to convince me?" Dean asked incredulously. "Why don't you just tell me she's an IRS agent in her down time and we'll have the trifecta of evil beings meant to make life miserable."

Sam pursed his lips in annoyance, getting that petulant look that Dean remembered so well from all the fights with their Dad when Sam thought he was being unjustly ignored. "Dean, all I'm saying is that she might know something that could help. You obviously want out of here and we could be done with this by morning."

Dean could feel himself getting angrier by the second. His chest was aching, struggling to draw air into quickly constricting lungs. "Cause asking for a demon's help is the fastest way to get the job done right."

"Man, she's been helping me for months. You _thanked_ her for saving me. What makes you think she's gonna turn-"

That itching, clawing pressure seemed to double and Dean had to fight away the need to _run_. It was eating at him, but he had to ignore it. This was too important. Sam was too important to let this drop no matter how much it pissed Dean off. And yeah, he was _seriously_ pissed now.

"Sam," Dean said, working to keep his voice low and steady, when all he really wanted to do was scream and hit something, rail at the universe for making sure that _nothing_ was ever easy or simple, "you wanna give me the benefit of the doubt that maybe, just _maybe_, I know a little bit more about demons than you do?"

"Dean, I…" Sam's mouth opened and closed several times, not sure what to say. Dean just kept his gaze level, unmoving, until finally Sam looked away. His brother closed his eyes and bit his lip, visibly working through what he wanted to say this time before he said it, which was a good thing because Dean was getting close to laying down more than just verbal judo.

"Look," Sam said, "you're the one who keeps telling me that it doesn't matter that I've got demon blood in me, that the only thing that matters is what I _do_. Well, the same goes for her. She's saved both of our lives over and over again. She's the only thing that kept me from getting killed while you were gone."

"She talked you into using your powers while I was gone," Dean snapped. "Powers you promised you wouldn't use, that you _hated_ were a part of you. She talked you into going down a path that has _angels_ on your ass 24/7."

Despite how badly his head had to be hurting, Sam stood up from the bed, equally angry now, ready to match Dean blow for blow. "She didn't have to _talk_ me into it! Those powers are all that have kept me alive, Dean!"

"This isn't just about your powers!" Dean shouted back just as furiously. "I mean it is, and it isn't. It's about where they lead, man." He shook his head sadly. "You're turning to demons for help, Sam. Demons. When not long ago you were begging me to kill you if you ever did anything crazy."

"Ruby's different. And I told you, I'm not gonna let it go too far. Sometimes… there might not be any other choice."

"You're not gonna let it go too far," Dean said bitterly. "We're dealing with a ghost here, Sam. That's all. A _ghost_. Something we've been dealing with since we were kids. We've been here less than a day, haven't come up with anything and the first thing out of your mouth is we should talk to a witch and a demon." Dean closed his eyes trying to keep his scattered thoughts together, fury and his deep-seated hatred of demons overriding logical arguments. "You say you're not gonna let it go too far, but you're ready to jump off the deep end."

"Look, man, you don't trust Ruby," Sam offered quietly, angrily. "I get it."

"Do you?" Dean grated out. "You understand how I feel about demons right now? About what they can talk you into doing?"

"It's... not the same, Dean," Sam said more quietly, his lips pursed.

"Dude, I'm trying to make up for… what I did. I'm doing everything I can to keep it together and I'm… I'm burning through what little sanity I've got left trying to keep you from running into hell full-tilt."

Sam sighed, looking down, his hair falling forward to hide his expression. "Yeah. I know God brought you back to keep an eye on me, Dean."

Dean just shook his head angrily. The angels claimed maybe he could help them, but Dean knew better. "Sam, I'm not here to save anybody. I keep screwing up and screwing up. If He brought me back for anything," he waited for his brother to look up, "Dude, I'm your own personal cautionary tale."

Sam's brow furrowed. "What?"

"You wanna see what making deals with demons gets you? You wanna see how doing something with the best of intentions, but working with the wrong people ends up?" Dean jerked a thumb at his chest. "It ends in hell, Sam. It ends in hell where even a semi-decent guy rots away and lets it eat at him until there's nothing left." Dean couldn't bear it any longer and turned away as his brother's face fell. "Cause there's nothing left, Sam. Nothing. And I can't stand the thought of it happening to you, too. I can't let you go down that path. I can't."

"Dean, I'm not _going_ anywhere," Sam insisted. "I just wanna talk to Ruby and see if she's got any ideas."

"You just wanna talk to a demon, see if she's got any ideas." Dean shook his head irritably, despair quickly flaring back to anger. "Oh, I'm sure she's got tons of ideas for you."

"She's _helping_ us!" Sam shouted.

"It's not just about getting the job done, Sam!" Dean snapped back. "It's _how_ we get the job done!"

"And what's _wrong_ with asking someone who might know more than we do?"

"She's not _someone_, Sam! She's a demon. You don't get to be a demon by wandering around picking flowers to cheer up old ladies."

"Well, I guess you'd know." As soon as Sam said it, he instantly backed down. For his part, Dean had frozen in place, frozen through clear to his blackened soul. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"Yeah… Yeah, you did," Dean said coldly. He'd known telling Sam about the last ten years in hell hadn't been a good idea. He was lecturing Sam about staying on the right path when Dean couldn't even call himself one of the good guys anymore. But to have Sam throw it in his face… Again. What did Sam know about hell? What did he know about _anything_?

"Please, Dean," Sam said, his tone conciliatory. "She might know something and I trust her… to a point. She helped me. She was the only thing that kept me alive while you were gone. You… you don't understand what those months… I was a disaster, man, and she-"

Anger, a vicious desire to wound flowed through Dean. He wanted to hurt someone as badly as he'd been hurt. He'd spent ten years letting that rage fill him, fuel him, control his actions and now it bubbled up, greeting him like an old friend. Ruby had helped Sam. Well, the rage had helped Dean. He might have gone insane in those ten years, but it had kept him from the torturers. It had kept him from the demons and the other souls just like him willing to do anything to keep the pain at bay, willing to dish a little of it out to relieve some of their own.

"She helped you?" Dean snarled. "More like, while the demons were ripping me apart you were screwing one. Yeah, she _helped_ you. You were alone for four months. How long did it take before you let her talk you into using your powers? _Demon_ powers. The same kind of powers that were peeling the skin off my bones. How long, Sam? Days? A month? Two?" Dean's eyes never left his brother, watching as his expression turned from hurt to horrified. "Thirty years," Dean said through clenched teeth. "I lasted thirty years. With no one. And after that I was an animal. I was any demon's bitch that would allow it. So don't tell me about being a disaster. And don't tell me that your powers are nothing. And don't tell me that I should trust Ruby just because she's taught you _so_ much."

Dean backed away from Sam, his heart beating so hard he thought it would leap out of his chest. He was just so _angry_. This freaking house was making him crazy and he couldn't _leave_. He was trapped here until they figured out what was going on with the dishes and wasn't that just pathetic in and of itself. _Dishes_. Of all the stupid things, and the Stockton jerk had prayed for help and now Dean was _trapped_ here and his chest was hurting, his heart banging away like it wanted to beat him to death from the inside out.

Maybe he should just do what Sam wanted and talk to Ruby. Anything to get out of this house, away from this place. It was wrong. He knew it was wrong, but he wanted out. He had to escape. Maybe Ruby could make it stop. This feeling. This awful, never-ending confinement. He could do it. It was wrong, but he could do it. Just for a while. Just to give himself a break. Just to make it stop. Just for a while. He would give in. He would do what they wanted. He couldn't take this anymore. He couldn't take this place.

"Dean!"

Sam. Sam wanted to talk to Ruby. Anything. Anything to make this stop. This feeling crawling across his skin, seeping inside of him, burning through to his bones.

"Dean, _breathe_. Please, man. _Please_."

He was stuck here, trapped. Forever. He couldn't get out. No one was going to help him. No one was going to save him. He was going to die here. Forever. Over and over and over.

His chest was on fire. The blood was roaring in his ears. His head, his heart, his whole body, they were screaming for relief.

Anything. He would do _anything_.

* * *

Sam closed his eyes, unable to bear the condemnation on his brother's face for one more second. He couldn't stop up his ears, though, as Dean's words battered at him, viciously pounding at him until Sam was literally flinching away.

Dean was right. Sam knew he was right. He couldn't trust Ruby. Never had. She was a _demon_. Sam had fought it. Fought her. Fought living, fought it all until he was hollow inside. She'd taken advantage of that. Used it to get him to tap into his powers. Used his desperate need for vengeance, his need for any kind of comfort, any kind of relief, even when he knew it was wrong, she'd used it to tie herself even more closely to him.

But Dean was also wrong. Ruby had kept him alive. She'd made sure that there was something of Sam left for Dean to come back to. And maybe Sam wasn't the same Sam that his brother remembered, but he was alive and Dean had Ruby to thank for that. She'd saved him again and again.

Sam had been so desperate to make the pain stop. He'd been left bleeding, slowly but surely dying from the wound his brother's death had caused. Or make that deaths. Sam had watched Dean die so many times, over and over again thanks to the Trickster. Sam hadn't even had time to recover from those months without his brother before Dean was taken again. And while Sam had been able to hunt the Trickster to make him fix it, there was no hunting hell. No matter what Sam did, Dean would still be gone.

Ruby had stepped in. He'd fought it, fought her, but finally he couldn't do it anymore. He'd given in and accepted what she offered. Anything to make the pain stop. Even if it was only for a little while. Even if it was the fleeting pleasure and oblivion of having a woman in his arms. Even if she wasn't really a woman. She could help him forget for a little while, and when he couldn't forget, she gave his need for vengeance a weapon.

The powers weren't evil in and of themselves. He was no one's tool, no _demon's_ tool. He'd been _given_ one to use against the things that had forced it on him. It wasn't any different than the shotgun that Dean loved so much, or salt or Latin incantations. It was just a tool.

_A demon tool_, he immediately heard in Dean's voice, ringing in his ears, followed closely by, _you're a tool_.

Sam abruptly realized that at some point Dean had stopped speaking. In fact, the room was deathly silent, except for Sam's own labored breathing. That didn't seem right.

Sam glanced up, wary of what he would find, and immediately started forward. "Dean!"

Dean had backed away from him. His eyes were clamped shut and his face was screwed up in an ugly grimace, pain, _torment_, written on his features. Sam suddenly realized why the room was so eerily quiet. Dean wasn't breathing. He was caught in a nightmare and his lips were turning blue.

Sam strode forward and grabbed Dean by his arms, shaking him roughly. "Dean, _breathe_. Please, man. _Please_."

Dean began to sag and Sam wrapped his arms around him, following his brother to the floor as his oxygen starved body collapsed.

The door flew open and banged back against the wall loudly, causing Sam to momentarily take his eyes away from Dean.

Mr. Stockton hurried in. "The dining room is going crazy." His already wide eyes widened further at the sight of Sam holding his unconscious brother.

"When did it start?" Sam asked.

"Just a couple of minutes ago. I thought you'd hear it. I guess you… Is he ok?"

Sam looked down and instinctively drew Dean closer, a horrible picture of the last time he'd held his brother in his arms ripping through his mind. Sam clasped Dean to his chest and his brother didn't fight it which meant he was definitely unconscious. Dean was breathing, however, now that he'd passed out. Breathing was a start.

"Help me get him on the bed," Sam ordered. Mr. Stockton hesitated as if afraid Dean would suddenly wake up and draw a gun on him again for getting too close. Sam wanted to growl in frustration. The situation was going from bad to worse and he didn't have time for this. "Grab his feet," he said in his best drill-sergeant tone.

Finally, Stockton moved forward and did as he was asked. Never releasing his brother, Sam stood and wrapped his arms around Dean's chest. Together, Sam and Mr. Stockton quickly lifted him and carried him to the bed where Sam carefully slipped his arm from beneath Dean and gently rested his head on the pillow. Sam then stood back, watching the rise and fall of Dean's chest to assure himself that his brother was still breathing evenly.

Sam half-expected, half-hoped that Dean would open his eyes, but there wasn't even a flutter of an eyelid. Dean was down for the count.

Sam let out a big puff of air and went to their bags, sitting on the floor. He grabbed one of the shotguns loaded with rock salt. Not Marigold, of course. He valued his life more than to grab Dean's favorite sawed-off.

With a last anxious glance in his brother's direction, Sam hurried out of the room and down the stairs with Mr. Stockton hard on his heels. As they approached the dining room, Sam saw that Mrs. Stockton was standing outside the door wringing her hands.

There was no noise coming from inside the room. Sam turned the knob and pushed the door open with the barrel of the shotgun. The dishes were all intact and exactly where they were supposed to be.

"When did they stop?" Sam asked quietly.

"When Gil started running upstairs," Mrs. Stockton replied.

Right about the time Dean passed out. Sam brought a hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose. The stitches in his head were pounding in time with his heart and Dean's words were still ringing in his ears. And whatever was going on, there was nothing he could do about it right now.

"Ok." Sam sighed and pulled the dining room door closed. "I'm gonna go get some sleep. You two do the same and we'll start again in the morning." The dishes had waited three years. They could wait a little longer. He didn't want to leave Dean by himself. His brother had spent enough time fighting his demons alone.

Sam didn't wait for the Stocktons' reply. He simply headed back up the stairs. Dean was exactly where he'd left him, unconscious on the bed, his breathing slow and even. Sam grabbed Dean's jacket and covered him with it as best he could. Sam walked to the other side of the bed. He didn't have the energy to pull down the comforter. He stretched out beside his brother and stared at the ceiling, listening to Dean's breathing.

It was a good mattress. What more could a ghost-hunting outlaw with a bad back ask for?

* * *

_Death to Ruby! -ahem- Sorry about that... Just slipped out. Uhh... More soon..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Dish It Out**

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

_Ok, enough fighting... The boys have actual work to do... Dishes to slay, etc._

Chapter Five

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Sam woke with a start. He looked around, all of his senses on alert, and heard the distinct sound of china breaking down in the dining room. He turned his head toward the other side of the bed.

Dean was gone.

Sam jumped up, adrenaline pushing him from zero to sixty in about two seconds. He grabbed the duffel of weapons and headed out of the room, toward the stairs and then down. Dean, he quickly saw, hadn't gone far. He was standing with his back against the front door, his hand on the doorknob, and his eyes on the closed entrance to the dining room.

Sam stopped at the foot of the stairs and gently set down the duffel bag. Dean looked ready to bolt, so Sam kept his voice low and even. "What are you doing, Dean?"

A smirk appeared and Dean glanced at him briefly before returning his gaze to the dining room. "Well, HAL, I'd make a _2001_ joke, but I somehow doubt you'd appreciate it." The words came out a little breathless, typical Dean when he was trying to keep calm.

"Dean," Sam said reproachfully. "What's goin' on, man?"

"You know. Just the usual," his brother answered. "Trying not to run screaming like a girl and hide in the coffee shop across town 'til you figure something out."

"That's the usual, huh?"

Dean grimaced. "Dude, at this point, I'd be willing to burn this place to the ground if it meant we could get out of here. It won't _stop_." He brought his free hand up to his head, digging his fingers through his hair. "It's everywhere… my skin's crawling, my ears are buzzing, I can't… S'like every instinct I have is tellin' me to run, but…"

"But what?"

Dean didn't answer. He just kept staring at the closed door like it was the source of all his problems. Finally, he spared another glance in Sam's direction. "You're falling down on the job here, man."

"What?" Sam asked confused.

Dean cleared his throat, his eyes back on the door. "You're supposed to be telling me to stop bein' a wuss, man up and go in there and kick this thing's ass." In complete opposition to his words, Sam saw Dean's hand turn the knob in preparation to open the front door and make a break for it.

"Dean, you can't leave."

Almost instantly, a dish crashed against the dining room door making them both jump. Dean closed his eyes and brought his arm up holding it close to his chest, trying to keep himself together. "Pretty sure I can." He clenched his jaw tightly. "Not really the macho vibe I've been trying to project though."

"You don't tell the Stocktons, I won't either."

Dean took several deep, slow breaths, then pried his fingers away from the doorknob, immediately clenching them in a fist at his side.

"Better?"

"Definitely not," Dean shook his head, "but I'm starting to embarrass even myself."

"Good to know that's possible. I wasn't so sure," Sam said, earning a glare from his brother. "Now… You wanna tell me what happened last time you went in that room?"

Dean gave him a mocking, if strained, grin. "And let you use it against me? Totally pleading the fifth."

Sam chose to ignore the jab. "Listen, it obviously has something to do with this. Unless you talk to me, we have no other way of figuring this out."

Dean's expression suddenly hardened. "It's not important."

"Well, I think it is."

He shook his head stubbornly. They both knew it was their only clue, but Dean just wasn't going to admit it. He didn't want Sam calling him weak again for talking about what was bothering him and Sam knew he had only himself to blame for that.

"It's not important," Dean said again.

Sam rolled his eyes."Why not? Because you say so?"

"Pretty much."

"Dean, just tell me or we're never gonna figure this out."

"No."

"Tell me!"

A huge crash came from the dining room, dishes breaking in a deafening cacophony. Some slammed against the door, rattling it. Dean scowled, glaring at the door as if he could make it stop by sheer force of will. Finally, he seemed to come to some sort of decision. Dean squared his shoulders and began walking toward the dining room, his face set in grim lines.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna get one of those freaking dishes so you can track something down."

Sam's jaw dropped open in disbelief. "Going into that room is easier than just telling me what happened?"

Dean cocked his head to one side. "Looks like."

Sam didn't know if this was a leftover from the fight and Dean was still mad at him or if Dean was just being a stubborn ass. Probably both. "If you go in there and have another panic attack, I'm not pullin' you out."

Dean stopped in his tracks just outside the door and half-turned, wearing an expression Sam couldn't quite read. "Better call Cas then. Seems to be his sort of thing."

Sam felt like he'd been kicked. "Dean, that's not..." He couldn't finish. That wasn't anything close to what he'd meant, but it was still true. He'd failed his brother. If ever Dean had needed him, in all of their disasters, that would have been the time for Sam the Boy Wonder, Sam the oh-so-brilliant, Sam, hell's demon-tainted heir apparent, to come through. Even with Dean standing in front of him, whole and mostly sane, Sam still couldn't forgive himself for that failure.

Dean sighed, a little shakily. "Take it easy, Sam. Just a joke."

But it wasn't a joke to Sam. Dean was still trying to bluff his way through everything, hell included, like he always had, but Sam didn't have the heart. "Dean, how can you joke about it?"

Dean turned to face him, although he dropped his eyes, mixing his signals so that Sam was still in the dark. Dean gave him a lopsided smile, his head turned slightly to the side so that when he glanced up he still wasn't looking at Sam directly. "Cause if I don't joke, I'll go postal," he said, and the words had the horrible ring of truth.

"You know you don't have to do that," Sam said, his voice hushed, afraid to break the spell of whatever had Dean at least facing him, sort of, and talking to him. Since the siren, Dean hadn't willingly said a single word about what had happened to him in hell, not one, with the exception of what had come out in their fight the night before and Dean had just been too angry to control that. "You know you can tell me anything, man."

"Sam," Dean said, pain and frustration making his voice rougher.

"Don't _Sam_ me. There's something wrong here and it's making things worse for you, but I can't help until you tell me what happened in there."

Dean pursed his lips. "Not really up to baring my soul, Sammy. Just got it back. Trying to keep it close to home for a while if you don't mind."

Sam frowned in annoyance. "That's not what I meant and you know it. And, yeah, I mind. You don't want me to talk to Ruby, so just tell me something, anything, so we can at least have something to go on!"

Dean scratched a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth, clearly aggravated that Sam wasn't going to let it go.

"Dean… upstairs, you quit _breathing_. You just shut down or something. I can't let you go in there if you're gonna do that again."

Dean smirked. "Good thing you're not in charge then." He turned back toward the dining room and Sam couldn't help but notice the hesitation as he reached for the doorknob.

"Don't," Sam bit out. "I'll go."

"And get your brain pulverized?" Dean asked. "Rumor has it you've got the only one between the two of us, so why don't we not damage it."

"Dean."

"Don't _Dean_ me," his brother shot back, obviously pleased that he could return the favor. "The dishes try to kill you. I just freak out," he cleared his throat, "a little. Besides, the dishes'll just blow up if you touch 'em. I run in, grab a plate and run back out, then you do your geek thing."

Sam sighed. "Ya know, Dean, you really need therapy."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Tell me something the entire world doesn't know."

"Cows don't dream," Sam said completely deadpan, saying the first stupid thing that came to mind, anything to forestall Dean having to face whatever the dishes in that room were doing to him.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks. His head popped up and an amused gleam appeared in his eye. "Seriously?"

Sam couldn't help a laugh. "No, not really. Or maybe. Like I know anything about cow brains?"

"You knew about cow bones," Dean shot back. "And dude. Head cheese. On what planet is that edible?"

Sam grimaced. "Apparently this one."

Dean mirrored his grimace. "Second only to mountain oysters, cause that is wrong on _so_ many levels."

"Tell me there wasn't a bet and a whole lot of booze involved the first time someone decided to try those," Sam added, wondering how long Dean would agree to keep stalling. Sam was willing to play the game as long as necessary. His brother was white as a sheet, his breathing too fast, and he hadn't even opened the door yet. The list of things that could do that was short to say the least. Sam wasn't in any real danger, nothing was actively trying to kill them, so that left pretty much one thing. Something in that room was bringing up memories of Dean's time down under. Sam had been guessing that was it since the first time Dean passed out, but now he was almost certain. Dean's absolute refusal to tell him anything was further proof.

"I ever catch the bastard who conned me into trying those," Dean tightened his grip on the doorknob and began to turn it, "I'll feed him his own oysters."

"At least take your shotgun," Sam said, ignoring the rest.

"To find that guy? Good idea."

"Into the room, Dean. Or salt. We'll throw enough salt around to get to one of the dishes."

Dean huffed out a stuttering breath, looking like he'd been given some sort of reprieve and it was a testament to how much the house was screwing with him that the idea hadn't already occurred to him. "Right. Salt," Dean said, letting go of the doorknob like it was red hot before heading toward the duffel Sam had brought downstairs.

When Dean moved away, Sam took the opportunity to open the door to at least give his brother a bit of time to see and prepare himself for what he was walking into. He'd be faster if he already had a target dish picked out ahead of time. The room was in perfect shape despite the crashes they'd heard only minutes earlier, not so much as a twitch from any of the china. Probably wouldn't be unless he walked in there with Dean.

Sam turned back toward his brother. "Grab the dish with your shirt or something so you don't actually have to touch it."

Dean stood up and his eyes suddenly widened. "Sam!"

Sam felt the dish break over his head just as Dean started forward. Something grabbed Sam and began dragging him into the dining room.

"Run!" a male voice shouted, but Sam's vision was already dark, unable to see whoever or whatever was shouting to his brother. "I'll keep him down as long as I can! Go!"

Sam felt the whoosh of air right before the plate caught the side of his head.

* * *

_More soon..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Dish It Out**

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

_Sam and Dean VS. the dishes..._

Chapter Six

* * *

Dean grabbed Marigold and trudged toward the dining room, feeling like he was trying to push through water just to get the few feet to the doorway. The pressure seemed to increase, squeezing him until his chest was aching as he tried to draw in a breath.

Get out. Run. Escape. _Escape_.

The wretchedly familiar stench of sulfur and rotting, scorched meat filled his nostrils, threatening to overwhelm him, but he refused to acknowledge it, focusing instead on the scene in front of him, something that had haunted his dreams long before his time in hell. Sam was being pulled away from him, blood flowing freely from the side of his head after the second blow.

Dean raised the shotgun to chest height although he had yet to see anything. "Whoever you are, get your hands off my brother," he ordered.

The second Dean passed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind him and every sense he had was overloaded to the point of agony. Sulfur burned his nose and lungs, ash clouded his vision, turned to grit on his tongue, screams filled his ears, and he was too far gone to know whether or not they were his own.

Why, he asked himself. Why hadn't he let Sam die? None of this would be happening if he'd just let Sam die. It had been his brother's time and Dean knew they were both going to die young anyway. Why? Why had he subjected himself to this torture? No matter how weak he got, they never stopped, they never relented, never gave him a moment to regroup before it started again.

As always, Dean crushed the traitorous thought. He'd done it because there was no other choice. There would _never_ be another choice except to save Sam.

Sam.

Sam who was hurt.

Sam who was bleeding.

Sam who _needed_ him.

Dean ordered himself to focus. He wasn't in hell anymore. This was not real. He knew what hell felt like. And this? This wasn't nearly frigging horrific enough to be hell. Close but no cigar.

Dean focused everything he had on the scar covering his shoulder. That handprint was proof that he'd been air-lifted to safety. Well, not safety exactly, but out of hell anyway. He had to get back to Sam, so screw channeling his inner Zen master. He was frigging Yoda.

Dean knew where he was. He was in a dining room in blander than bland suburbia. He pictured the room, the furniture, the table, the dishes. Lastly, he pictured Sam where he'd seen him fall.

Dean concentrated with everything he had until finally he felt his surroundings shift. He was face down on the floor, but it wasn't rock or bone or ash beneath him. It was carpet. Dean set his hands flat against the rug and let his fingers run over the slightly rough texture. Slowly, his other senses began to return as memories of hell began to ebb.

"Remind me to stay away from garage sales," Dean said, his voice ragged. "Probably oughta avoid Goodwill, too, just to be safe."

His sight returned last, the colors of the room around him bleeding through until the image of hell, permanently burnt into his retinas, faded to a sort of halo around the edges of his vision. He could breathe, but the never-ending torment hiding just beneath the surface of the dining room wouldn't disappear entirely.

"Sam?" Dean called, struggling to rise from the floor. The muscles in his arms were shaking as if he'd been lifting hundred pound weights all day and he had to force them to obey. "Sam, can you hear me?"

The room was silent around him, not even any breaking dishes. Dean finally managed to turn and saw that Sam was lying on his back, unconscious and bleeding badly from the fresh head wound. Dean tried to rise, but quickly realized his legs weren't going to hold him. Fire still burned around him like this room was a transparent overlay barely masking the hell that owned him lock, stock and barrel.

Abandoning all pretense of macho pride, Dean pulled himself awkwardly, scooting across the floor toward his brother. He concentrated on Sam, on getting to Sam, on helping Sam, on ignoring the reek of sulfur burning his nose and throat.

Dean pulled off his over-shirt, leaving him in just a t-shirt. He balled it up and pressed it against Sam's head. His brother was 0 for 3 in the dishes department and Dean was definitely going to have some more stitching to do. Sam was going to start looking like Frankenstein's monster if they didn't get this figured out pretty soon.

"Why didn't you run?"

Dean's head snapped up, causing his vision to waver, other images, other horrors threatening to engulf him before he managed to focus and order them away. A man was sitting cross-legged on the table in the middle of all the dishes. He picked up a plate and weighed it in his hands, then his eyes settled on Sam.

Dean did the only thing he could. He scrambled backwards, roughly shoving Sam behind him until he was backed into the corner. He kept Sam behind him, shielding him with his body. Sam was half-sitting and Dean felt his brother's head fall forward to rest heavily against his back.

"Who are you?" Dean asked. The ghost's head was shaved and he was gaunt to the point of emaciation. He was wearing the remains of what kind of looked like a uniform jacket over a ragged black and white prison outfit. A tiny hint of memory tickled at the back of Dean's mind. He'd seen something like this before.

"Lieutenant Hastings, Benjamin," the man answered, except the accent was all wrong for white-bread middle-America.

"British, huh? You do know that technically lieutenant doesn't have an 'f' in it, right?"

"Why didn't you run?" the ghost demanded again. "I gave you a chance to get away."

Dean saw it now. In a flash, it was all clear.

What set of circumstances would have produced a starved British military man in a vaguely familiar prisoner type outfit and truckloads of bone ash? Add in the era of the uniform jacket as well as that the old lady had bought the dishes in Europe around 1950 and the result was one really pissed off POW who'd died in a Nazi internment camp.

The crematory furnaces would have produced all kinds of ash, and some idiot had used some to make the dishes. Maybe the jackass had thought he was hiding some of the evidence, or maybe they'd thought it was another way of desecrating a bunch of poor, trapped people, but the result was the same.

The dishes had been perfectly quiet while at the old lady's house, but as soon as they'd been brought to the Stocktons', they were in a house with another POW, this one also still locked up. Walter didn't leave the house, he sat in his chair and played cards, as much a prisoner of his own mind as he'd been in the camp he'd been held in. If Walter was the POW, that made the Stocktons the guards and therefore the enemy.

Dean understood now why he'd reacted so badly to the house or rather why the house had reacted so badly to him. Dean had spent thirty years as a prisoner in the worst POW camp ever. The only thing he didn't get was why the ghost had it in for Sam.

"You should have tried to escape," the ghost said reproachfully. "You know how little time there is left."

"Time?" Dean asked, confused.

"I overheard the guards talking. The Americans are liberating the camps as they reach them. They will be here before long. The commandant wants to hide as much of the evidence as possible before that happens. None of us has been able to get close enough to check, but I believe the Jewish barracks have already been completely emptied. He will want everyone on this side of the camp dead, too. He cannot afford to let us report the things we've seen."

Dean tried to think. Half of what he knew about the camps came from watching _Hogan's Heroes_. That was about as close to what had actually happened as _Hellraiser_ was to hell. Ruby had lied about that as well.

"The boss has the furnaces working overtime," Dean observed.

"Non-stop now," the man said grimly. "If only the Americans would hurry... Perhaps some of us might still make it out of this place alive."

Except he hadn't, he wouldn't, Dean thought. The soldier had died and his body had burned like so many others. Jewish prisoners would have been held separately from military personnel, but this poor bastard had still met the same fate.

The scent of rotten flesh, sulfur and ash once again threatened to overwhelm Dean. He could feel the grit beneath his fingernails, had to blink against scratchy powder making his eyes water. The sudden smell of burning hair had him on his knees, gagging.

Yoda, Dean ordered himself. Focus on the frigging dining room.

"Have you spoken to Private Stockton?"

"Walter? Good guy," Dean rasped out, "but not so much with the talking. Why?"

"I've been trying to come up with a way to include him in the escape plan, but the guards..." The ghost frowned. "They must know we're planning something. They keep him away from me."

"Walter's free," Dean tried. "He got out of the camp already." And he had. Just not the lieutenant's camp.

The ghost ignored him. "Why didn't you escape when I gave you the chance?"

"Well... To be honest, the guy you knocked out... I can't leave without him. I'm kinda funny that way."

"I've warned you. You mustn't trust him," Hastings said earnestly. "He's working with the enemy. You _know_ that."

Dean cleared his throat. "Sam and I... we're having some trust issues. Doesn't mean I can leave him behind."

"He will get us all killed," the ghost snapped.

"He's trying to help," Dean shot back. "And why am I friggin' arguing with a ghost who doesn't have a clue what I'm talkin' about!" He shook his head at his own stupidity.

"Your friend is making poor choices. Take care he doesn't drag you down with him."

Dean grimaced as his chest tightened, steel bands squeezing, forcing the air from his lungs. Trapped. He was trapped and he couldn't get free. But it wasn't hell closing in now. It was a far more immediate danger than that. Sam's decisions were hemming him in, cutting off his options, leaving him with fewer and fewer choices where his brother was concerned.

"_He said that if I couldn't save you… I'd have to kill you."_

"_Your brother is headed down a dangerous road."_

"_I'm not gonna let it go too far, Dean."_

"He'll be fine," Dean stated firmly to the ghost. "You just worry about getting out of here."

"We're leaving tonight," Hastings whispered. "He's going to have to be dealt with or he will inform the guards."

The ghost rose from his position on the table and the dishes behind him began to rattle. Dean reached for Marigold but she was too far away. He'd lost her in his mad scramble to keep Sam behind him.

"Get out of the way," the ghost ordered.

"No."

"Move. You know it has to be done."

Hastings reached for him, knocking Dean out of the way as if he weighed no more than a feather. The fall jarred him and broke his concentration. Hell, in full and living color broke through, as if melting the dining room that had tried to cover it. He could feel Alastair breathing down his neck, reminding him yet again how easily the torment could end. Just one word and Alastair would release him.

Dean looked and the body on the rack in front of him was Sam, already bleeding from a gash on his head. His Sam. And the sight froze the blood in his veins. Dean shut his eyes. He wasn't in hell. He had to keep Sam _out_ of hell. He was in a dining room. He was free. He wasn't trapped anymore. He wasn't hurting people. Any. More.

Dean opened his eyes, and nearly sobbed in relief that it was once again the Stocktons' dining room, hell still pressing on him, but once again in the background. He hurriedly got to his feet and realized the dishes had stopped rattling. Hastings was staring at him.

"You," he spat.

Dean frowned in confusion. Something was different, and he seriously doubted it was going to be good for his health. "Me?"

"I was wrong. It wasn't him," the man hissed. "He's not the one who's been informing on us." He pointed at Dean in accusation. "_You've_ been helping them. You know about the experiments and you've still been _helping_ them." A plate flew past, barely missing Dean's head, and shattered against the wall. "They've already killed every Jew in this camp! They _killed_ Jack and Michael when they found the papers." A saucer flew at Dean's face and he barely managed to bat it aside. "You've been turning in fellow prisoners. You've been helping them torture us. Helped them kill us!" More dishes flew at him and Dean turned his back, trying to protect his head with his arms. "We're the only prisoners left! And what did it _get_ you?" The ghost screamed. "They'll kill you, too! They're going to kill us all!"

Dean fell to his knees, hardly noticing as dishes made contact. He felt shards cutting at him, but didn't cry out. It was true. It was all true. He'd broken. He'd spent ten years consorting with the enemy to save his own sorry ass. He was harping on his brother to give up Ruby and his powers, but how many souls had Dean ripped to shreds just to protect himself, ignoring it as his own soul turned black as tar and rotted away? He couldn't even claim insanity. He'd just wanted the pain to stop and thirty years of pent up rage had spilled out on anyone that came near him. Why suffer more pain, when he could dish it out?

"Stop!"

Dean barely registered Sam's voice above the din of breaking dishes and the screams that filled his ears, the screams of his countless victims.

"Stop! They're here!"

Another dish smashed into Dean's hand where he held it covering his head. If there was anything Dean had learned from thirty years of torture it was the most effective way of hurting another human being. A person's hands were like gold. Nerve endings galore.

"The Americans are here," Sam shouted, his voice still breathless, but stronger.

The dishes abruptly fell silent. "What?" the ghost asked, shocked.

"An entire battalion. They're rounding up the guards now. Making arrangements for all of the prisoners."

"They are?" Hastings voice sounded broken, hardly daring to hope.

"You're going home," Sam said gently. "They're here to liberate the camp. We'll all get to go home now."

"I can hear them," Hastings said, sounding farther away.

"You're free. You're free to go," Sam reassured him.

Dean knew the second that Hastings was gone. The blurred overlap of his memories of hell faded away. The stench of sulfur died and with it the voices begging for mercy.

He was still kneeling on the floor with his arms over his head, but he couldn't seem to move. He wasn't in hell anymore, but sometimes he was certain that he'd brought it back with him. Sam said he was weak. Maybe he was. Maybe he was nuts. Maybe he was weak _and_ nuts.

"Dean?" He felt Sam's hand on his back. "You ok, man?"

Sam shouldn't be asking him. Sam was the one who was hurt. He was still bleeding from the new head wound. Sam had saved his ass and Dean needed to get his act together and take care of his little brother, not that he'd been doing a real bang-up job of it lately.

Dean forced himself to drop his hands away from his head and look up, not even caring that tears stained his cheeks. Sam was a mess. Head wounds were always nasty and Sam was holding Dean's shirt against the gash.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wrong."

"'Bout what?"

"The dishes. Totally shoulda been hopin' for the pissed off cow."

* * *

_The wrap-up soon..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Dish It Out**

Disclaimer: Property of Kripke and co. Just borrowing for a little while.

Summary: Sam and Dean are roped into working a haunted house that other hunters have been forced to give up on. Post 4.14.

_At long last, here you have the wrap-up... Been a pleasure. Thanks for each and every review. Love you guys to pieces!_

Chapter Seven

* * *

Sam woke faster than he would have liked thanks to a roaring headache that rivaled the leftovers of a vision. After a few seconds, he remembered it was due to being repeatedly clocked by dinnerware, not to mention blood loss and a couple of sets of stitches. Apparently, the ghost hadn't liked that he was working with Ruby any better than Dean.

Sam braced himself and turned his head on the pillow. No Dean. He reached out a hand and felt that the bed beside him was cold, might not have been slept in at all.

After Dean had pulled himself back together, he'd helped Sam upstairs and patched him up before tucking Sam in like he was a two year old. Sam had been out as soon as his head touched the pillow. He felt guilty now knowing that after what happened he'd left Dean alone to deal with what the ghost had said. The POW had hit Dean right where it hurt, Dean who'd spent thirty years on one end of the torturer's knives, but ten on the other.

The sight of Dean on his knees, frozen with shame and pain, had been almost more than Sam could bear. Directly or not, Sam was the reason his brother had gone to hell. Sam was the reason his brother had suffered beyond what he could bear. Sam's failure to save him had broken a man who had always been the strongest person he knew.

Sam pressed a hand over his eyes. He wanted to talk to Dean about it, he needed to, but he had no clue how to go about it. Getting Dean to talk since Sam had called him a whiner was about as easy as getting Dean to take ballet lessons. Things had already been messed up between them. A freaking siren bent on killing one or both of them had been all they needed. Sam's only consolation was the knowledge that the siren was trying to get them to kill the person they loved most in this world. No matter what they'd said, that one basic truth still held.

Sam rose from the bed, his head throbbing painfully. He was still wearing the jeans he'd worn the night before, but Dean must have forced him to change out of his bloody shirt at some point and cleaned him up, not that he remembered it. Sam headed straight for the door, not bothering to find his shoes, and gingerly made his way down the stairs. He paused at the bottom and then stopped at the sound of a voice.

"Hearts? Seriously?"

Sam crept toward the living room door and listened again.

"Hearts… hearts… There's gotta be a heart in this freakin' deck somewhere," Dean growled, then added triumphantly, "Ha! How do you like them apples!"

Now that he was closer, Sam could hear the cards being flipped. Dean must be playing with Walter. Sam stayed where he was just listening.

"Dude! You change it to hearts one more time, we're gonna have words!" Dean coughed. "Well, not words exactly, since you got the whole silent thing goin' on, but you know what I mean." Sam heard a few more cards being flipped. "Clubs, huh? I can deal with clubs." Another card. "You did not just throw that. Wally, what did I just say?"

Sam had to smile listening to Dean keeping up the running commentary as he and Walter continued to play. After a few more seconds, Dean must've lost the hand because Sam heard his brother start counting. "Forty. Your son was right. You're kicking my ass," Dean grumbled. There was a slight pause. "Let me guess. Still your deal? I keep tellin' ya, you're gonna get carpel tunnel if you don't let me deal one of these days." Dean sighed. "No, huh? Fine. Have it your way. Again."

Walter shuffled and began dealing. There was a pause while both players arranged their cards. "I'm feelin' good about this one, Wally, feelin' good. Two of spades, huh? How about a two of clubs? Whadya thinka that? Sam," Dean's voice rose, "if you're gonna watch us, could you at least have the decency to come in the room?"

Sam grimaced, embarrassed that he obviously hadn't been as stealthy as he thought. He walked into the living room to see Dean sitting at the little table across from Walter, who was looking just as vacant as he had before.

"Hearts again? Wally, you are seriously driving me nuts here and I do _not_ need any help with that." Dean started drawing cards, going through four or five before finally drawing what he wanted. He looked up at Sam. "Crazy Eights. Seemed appropriate since we're both a couple of head cases. There a reason you're lurking out in the hall?"

"I wasn't lurking," Sam said, unsure whether Dean was annoyed or not.

"Dude, we're professional lurkers." Dean continued to stare at his cards. "I know it when I see it."

"Loitering, maybe," Sam admitted. "You… feeling ok?"

"Fine," Dean answered, his tone clipped. Sam didn't know why he asked. These days, Dean would have to be missing a hand before he'd admit to having a problem. "You ok?" Dean asked instead. "Your pills have probably worn off by now, but we're out. Need to pick some up at the drug store."

"S'ok," Sam said. "I have some stashed in my bag."

Dean looked up at that, frowning. "When'd you get those?"

"What? I don't know. Sometime." Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. Dean actually looked _annoyed_ that Sam had some pills.

Dean returned to staring at his cards. "Just didn't know you were keeping your own now."

Sam fought the urge to growl. "Dean, I'm not-"

Mrs. Stockton bustled into the room. "Sam! You're up. Would you like some breakfast?"

"Oh, I-"

"She made waffles," Dean said, the sudden cloud over him lifting at their hostess' arrival.

"You already ate?" Sam asked.

"Dude, it's almost eleven. We ate a couple of hours ago."

"In the dining room," Mrs. Stockton said happily. "Gil had to leave for work, but Dean and I picked up the dishes. He took them to the cemetery up the road and buried them, then we had a nice, long breakfast."

"Paper plates," Dean chimed in. "Just in case."

Sam looked at his brother and wondered what it had cost him to go back in the dining room. He wondered if Mrs. Stockton had even realized what she was asking of him. Watching him now, Sam would never have guessed at the state Dean had been in the day before. He was too good an actor. Sam had always known his brother was good, a well-trained con man, but it was only since Dean had come back that Sam realized just _how_ good he really was. Dean had looked him straight in the eye and said he didn't remember a thing from his time in hell. Sam, who'd always prided himself on his ability to read his brother when outsiders couldn't, had looked right at him and believed him. Sam liked to tell himself that it was because he'd wanted to believe it, but deep down he knew. Either Dean was a better actor, or their connection wasn't as strong, or... something.

"I'll just be a minute," Mrs. Stockton said, unaware of Sam's inner monologue. "I still have some waffle batter left."

"Thanks, Amy," Dean said when Sam didn't answer. "Sam gets a little surly when he's not fed properly."

Sam smiled belatedly, and the woman hurried away toward the kitchen, no doubt pleased that she would be able to use her dining room again.

"Dude, rude much?" Dean shook his head, then muttered, "Been hanging out with Ruby too long."

Sam purposely ignored the last part. He didn't want another fight this morning. The night before had been more than enough and he didn't want to start again. It wouldn't get them any farther today than it had yesterday. "Sorry," he said instead. "Was thinking about something else."

"Whatever." Dean set down his last card and Walter started thumbing through his cards then wrote his score down on a piece of paper beside him. Dean had to lean forward to see since Walter wasn't going to share. "Crap. Still losing."

Sam stepped closer to them as Walter dealt again. They played in silence for a few seconds before the man set down an eight, a wild card in this game. He immediately pointed to a small card with the four suits on it. It looked worn around the edges and Sam guessed that it was a well used tool for playing cards with the man since he wouldn't speak to indicate what suit he was calling.

"Diamonds?" Dean said, pretending surprise. "Gettin' frisky, Wally. You know you get into trouble when you pick diamonds."

"What's with the cards?" Sam asked. He doubted Dean had played anything but poker since they were little kids. He couldn't help a grin. "Walter talk you into playing?"

"We're gettin' along pretty well." Dean glanced up, a wry twist to his lips. "Wally and I are about the same age. They can put us together in the old folk's home."

Sam felt his heart stutter painfully, but he fought not to let it show. Dean had always been his older brother, but now...

Sam watched as Dean set another card down, pleased with himself. "Let's change it to spades. Cause, Wally, my man, I'm thinking you don't have any." Walter's only reaction was to start drawing cards, his expression still vacant.

Two old soldiers. The difference between the two players couldn't have been more startling. Dean was smiling, laughing, interacting. He'd spent forty years being physically and mentally torn to shreds. How long had Walter been in the enemy's hands? Months? A couple of years even? And he'd come home to his loving family an unrecognizable mess.

If anyone had a right to be a head case it was Dean. He had a right to want to hide and never go out in the world again, never face the things that had hurt him. For that matter, he could have come back like the ghost. He could have been violent, lashing out at anyone he perceived as a threat whether it was justified or not.

Dean had come back... Dean. It had taken weeks and a nudge from Uriel before Sam realized something was really off.

_Weak_. He'd called Dean _weak_. Sam could still see him in the diner, fresh out of hell, facing down the demon. Sam had nearly had a heart attack when Dean slapped her. They'd had no useful weapons, nothing but Dean staring down one of the things that had been killing him over and over for forty years, daring it to try something.

If only Sam could convince Dean to work with him. If only he could convince him that Ruby was helping them, that Sam's powers were a _gift_ to a hunter. Sam could get rid of demons other hunters couldn't and wouldn't go near. Yes, Yellow Eyes had given him the powers, but that didn't mean they couldn't be a useful _tool_. Why not use every weapon at their disposal? Because there was no way they could go up against Lilith without some sort of advantage. She might not be able to kill Sam, but Dean would be dead meat. Again. And Sam would _never_ allow that to happen again. He _had_ to be ready to go after Lilith before she came after _them_. This time _Sam_ would be the one to save his brother, no matter the cost.

"Sam, either stop staring and pull up a chair, or go shower. You're giving Wally the creeps," Dean said, not bothering to look up.

Sam just nodded and headed for the stairs. He couldn't sit down. Sam wasn't sure he and Dean were playing the same game anymore.

* * *

Dean watched Sam's retreating form and sat back, letting out a slow breath. He threw his cards down. "You win, Wally. Good game." Without even pausing, Walter scooped up the cards and began shuffling before dealing himself a game of solitaire.

Dean ran a hand over his face, lingering over the stubble on his chin. He probably should've shaved, but he just hadn't had the energy. He hadn't slept. He couldn't in this house. As soon as Sam had breakfast, they were out of here. If they only got a couple of hours away before he had to shell out for a motel and crash, that was fine by him.

He'd managed to go back into the dining room when Mrs. Stockton had asked for his help cleaning up the mess. It had taken a few seconds of telling himself to suck it up and one horrible second of remembering Sam saying, "You're too weak," before he'd pushed himself forward. There hadn't even been a twinge of any leftovers from the ghost. It was a good thing, too. Dean wasn't sure he could handle another rerun. The things that they'd done to him... The things _he'd_ done...

But of all the things he'd done, the worst thing was letting it happen again. The question. Why hadn't he just let Sam die? How many times had he asked himself that? Sure, he'd literally been in hell, but the knowledge that he'd asked it… It was a betrayal of himself just as much as anything else he'd done.

Dean felt a prickling sensation race down his spine and his eyes snapped open, already knowing who he was going to see. Castiel was standing a few feet from the table, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, as if he had every right to be in the house.

"Hey, Cas. I was wondering when you'd turn up. You come to play cards or are you more the board game type?" When the angel simply stared at him, Dean cocked his head to one side. "Let me guess. Little of both. Cribbage?"

"Dean."

Dean almost laughed. Castiel sounded a lot like Sam when he was trying to get Dean to be serious. Of course, Sam wouldn't smite him for blasphemy. "Just drop by for a visit or did you need something?"

"You did well here," the angel said.

"Yeah. Sam nearly lost an eye, I nearly wet myself. Good times."

"You were uniquely qualified to assist the Stocktons," Castiel replied.

"The world is going to hell in a hand basket and your Boss is worried about the Stockton's dining room?" Dean asked.

"An angel wrestled with the Devil over Moses' bones," Castiel said professorially.

"Uhh... Good to know," Dean said. "So... you care about the poor guy's remains. Good for you. But pretty sure that guy wasn't Moses material. And I am no angel."

Castiel didn't even blink. "I am well aware."

"So the Big Guy took time out of His busy schedule to worry about some dishes?"

Castiel sighed. "Just because there are larger concerns, it does not mean He ignores other matters."

"Oh, yeah," Dean said snidely. "Big help. There a reason Wally's still sitting here a vegetable? Pretty sure that would help the Stocktons, too."

"Evil men hurt this man. That cannot be changed. Humans have free will and they use it to hurt each other. Actions have consequences."

"He could change it if He wanted to." Dean cringed inwardly at how petulant he sounded.

The aura of power surrounding the angel became stifling and Dean involuntarily pressed farther back in his chair. "He could force every living thing on the planet to bow to His will." The moment passed and once again, Castiel looked like a tax accountant with a penchant for too much hair product. "But that is not what He wants. The Father wants only those who choose to follow Him. Would you feel the same about your brother if he did what you want because he had to? Because you could force him to?"

As appealing as the idea was, especially after their fight the night before, Dean knew Sam wouldn't be Sam if he didn't have the option to tell Dean to take a hike.

Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Why are we here then? A POW in the living room, a POW in the dining room. Why fix one and not the other?"

Castiel's lips twitched very slightly. "Who said you were here for the Stocktons?"

"You said I was 'uniquely qualified to assist them'," Dean parroted.

"Yes. _You_ were."

"This was for me?" Dean asked, appalled. He got to his feet and began pacing back and forth. "What's He tryin' to do? Give me a heart attack? Or a full frigging breakdown?"

"Actions have consequences, Dean."

"You wanna translate?" Dean frowned. "I don't speak Cryptic."

Castiel remained unmoving, his eyes not even bothering to track him as Dean paced. "You remember what you did in hell?"

"Kinda permanently burned into my brain," Dean snapped. "Didn't really appreciate last night's replay either."

"Are you sorry for what you did?"

Dean stopped and faced the angel, furious that he was even being asked. "Yes," he said through clenched teeth.

Castiel cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowed. "Have you asked for forgiveness?"

"What?"

"Have you _asked_ for _forgiveness_?"

Dean's heart was banging in his chest again, but he didn't have the ghost this time to blame for his impending panic attack. "What for? It won't change what I did."

"No, it won't," Castiel said, his tone implying Dean was being purposely dense.

"Then what's the point?" Dean demanded angrily. "I know what I did. I don't deserve forgiveness for something like that."

"No one deserves forgiveness. That's why you have to ask for it. That's why it has to be given. That," Castiel's gaze shifted to look Dean straight in the eye, "is why we are grateful that He is merciful to those who _seek_ forgiveness."

Dean clenched his jaw shut tightly to keep from saying anything stupid. He couldn't forgive himself. Why should anyone else do it? Even if he hadn't deserved hell before he went, and that was a big freakin' _if,_ the things he'd done there ensured that he'd been sent to the right place. He hadn't deserved to be pulled out of hell and he didn't deserve any kind of pardon.

"Do you know anything about the apostle Paul, Dean?"

Dean dug his fingers into his exhausted, gritty eyes. He wanted away from this house and these people and he wanted to shut his brain off for a while. "Cas, really not in the mood for a bible correspondence course."

"Before his conversion, he was a wealthy young man, very well educated, from a highly placed family, and devout. Before he became a Christian, do you know what he did?"

"I bet you're gonna tell me," Dean said tiredly.

"He killed Christians, Dean. He arranged for entire households to die. He thought they were heretics and had every last one of them that he could put to death. He went so far as to get permission to go to other cities and find more God-fearing people to be executed."

Dean grimaced. "Nice guy."

"Misguided. A good man. Devout. But terribly misguided until he was shown a better way."

"There a point to this?" Dean demanded. "Cause I wasn't good or misguided."

"The point is that Paul was forgiven for what he did. He was forgiven for murdering good people."

Dean couldn't seem to get his jaw unclenched. "And?"

"And despite being forgiven, he never forgot what he had done. He called himself the chief of sinners. It was a terrible burden, but it could not be changed. Actions have consequences."

"Cas-"

"He could not forget, or change what had happened, but he was forgiven. It was a great consolation to him and made him all the more determined to do the Lord's will. A man loves much who is forgiven much."

"I'm already working for your Boss, Cas. You don't have to talk me into it," Dean growled. "Not big on the demons-taking-over thing."

"You worry about your brother's soul." Castiel regarded him solemnly. "The Father worries about _all_ souls. Even yours, Dean."

"So I get sent here to learn the value of forgiveness."

Castiel raised an eyebrow and if Dean didn't know better he'd say the angel was amused. "You were also able to help the Stocktons and see to the bones of the young man."

Dean rolled his eyes. "The Big Guy likes to multitask, huh?"

Castiel didn't bother to respond. "Think about what I've said, Dean. When you're ready to talk to Him, He will listen."

Dean turned toward the doorway, not even bothering to acknowledge it as Castiel disappeared. "Sam, this is getting really old. Will you get in here!"

Sam came in, again, looking sheepish. Dean knew he'd stopped as soon as he'd heard Castiel's voice. Sam was sneaky for a guy the size of a barn, but the boards squeaked at the bottom of the stairs.

"Dude, you've gone from lurking to skulking."

"I wasn't skulking."

Dean just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you were eavesdropping."

Sam grinned. "Ok, yeah. Maybe."

"You know you don't have to do that," Dean said seriously. "I tell you everything he says." That wiped the grin off of Sam's face, and Dean was sorry. Sort of. He was just tired of Sam sneaking around. He hated having to feel like he had to watch _Sam_, of all people. "So how much did you hear? Need to know where to start."

Sam swallowed, pulling himself together. "Heard it all."

"Great." Dean could feel the tips of his ears turning red, but he couldn't do anything about it. He'd think about it all... later. A lot later. He needed to get out of here. "So... go take your shower already. I'm gonna eat your waffle if you take too long."

"You know, Dean..." Sam shifted nervously on his feet and cleared his throat. "What I... After the..."

Dean frowned. He wasn't sure he could handle anymore well-meaning heart-to-heart time. Not even with Sam. "What?"

"What he said..." Sam cleared his throat again. "About what you did..."

Dean held his hands out to stop him, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. "Whoa. I don't wanna do this, man. What happens in the pit, stays in the pit."

"You did not just compare hell to Vegas," Sam said in disbelief.

"Sin City. Think it works just fine."

Sam sighed and took a step closer, then a step back. "You know I don't hold it against you, right? What you did there?"

Dean clamped his mouth shut. He nodded stiffly. That was the best he could manage.

"After the siren... what I said..."

_Boohoo_.

"I don't think that." Sam ran a hand over his face in frustration. "I mean... I do, but..." He stopped and shook his head. Finally, he dropped his shoulders and just looked Dean straight in the face. "Dean, we're at war," he said quietly. "A war that's going to be almost impossible to win. I'm not gonna tell you to just get over it. I know that's asking too much. But we've both got to have our heads in the game. Not stuck in the past on things that can't be changed. I need you here with me. Now."

"I'm here," Dean said through teeth clenched so tightly they creaked.

Sam nodded. "I know. I _know_. But just... if what Castiel said will help... Just... If you won't talk to me, then..."

"Got it. You want me focused."

Sam smiled just barely. It was lopsided but it was there. "I want you to have some kind of peace, Dean... So you can help me kick some ass."

Dean felt an answering smile on his own lips, the tension in his shoulders easing. "You do know how to cheer a guy up. Me and the ass-kicking, we're old friends. Might even get myself some new boots for the occasion."

Sam laughed lightly. "Good idea."

"Go shower," Dean ordered. "Waffles are waiting."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Do you... Would you mind if we just ducked out of here?" he asked. "I'll be glad to see this place in the rear-view mirror." He bit his lip. "We could drive for a couple of hours and then crash somewhere."

"Music to my ears," Dean replied, not bothering to hide his relief. Sam nodded and headed up the stairs to get their things.

Awkward. Things between them were just so _awkward_ and it was killing Dean. But they were trying. They were both exhausted from trying and Dean would keep trying to his very last breath.

He sat back down in the chair across from Walter. Sam said he wanted Dean's head in the game. Problem was, Dean wasn't sure he and Sam were playing the same game anymore.

* * *

_And there you have it. The boys are in for a rough ride ahead as we all know. We can only hope for something better on the other side. Until then... Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it._


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